Ellipsis
by NellyN
Summary: Now a Mayfield patient, House looks for meaning in his past and present. Intervals Trilogy 2/3. This story is now complete. If you've been waiting to comment, now's the time. Anonymous comments enabled. See author's notes in profile.
1. Just before sleep

_Everything is becoming. Nothing is. –Plato_

###

Just before sleep overtook him, he felt something.

Not a big deal. Feeling something was the prime feature of this experience, this _voluntary commitment_. Mostly nausea. A churning, a longing, a darkness. And more—too much. He'd turn a corner and run into an emotion, like he'd motorcycled into a cement wall. Undirected guilt, unnamed loss, cutting anxiety. Things he'd pronounced dead and buried a decade ago, if he had ever felt them. There was no logic to it; he did not have the energy to construct one. He couldn't even find enough motivation to resist. On the good days, the beast dragged him. On the bad ones, it ate him.

This was different.

Steady pressure on his chest, thickness in the back of his throat, bitter slime lining his mouth. _C'mon, c'mon_. I know this one.

But the solution slid out of his grasp.

Pressure. Lungs. _C'mon…_

Prodded by the feeling of drowning, his heart revved up. He wrenched his eyes open. Saw anemic amber light, gray smears. Felt heat and satisfaction, the deep pleasure of fighting back. Then his heart collapsed into a sleep rhythm. His limbs were too heavy to lift.

He plunged into the dream with his teeth bared.


	2. The first time

The first time Greg House sees something he's not supposed to see, he's five or six years old.

The base school, Camp Panzer Kaserne, Germany: smell of chalk and wood; a desk short enough that his feet touch the floor when he writes; brown-and-white tile floors waxed slick as ice rinks, endlessly appealing in their potential for mischief. He's just started school, but has already decided that it is much better than home, that it is _his_, in precisely the depth and degree that the officers' house where he lives is _not-his_. His rules prevail; for the first time, his logic is unassailable; Authority is claimed by the smartest person in the room. The teacher, a towering and ancient oracle, is so different from the other adults that she might as well be another species. He believes she's earned her distinguished position through lifelong study, and he finds this very admirable but slightly suspicious. Barely older than a toddler, he already believes that people who know more than he does are cheaters.

He's alone in the classroom. There is no teacher; no other kids. He doesn't remember why this is, but it seems normal. Maybe he has slipped back in while the rest are at recess, or maybe it's after school and everyone has gone out to greet the parents. Not House. There was a math lesson today, and while he retained little of it, what he remembers is rattling in his head, sizzling in it.

The books are lined up on low shelves along the walls. The kindergarten math books are all orange, first grade blue, second grade green… he walks along until he reaches a row of red books. These books are for the fifth-graders. The most challenging books in the room. He sits on the cold tile and rests the big book between his knees. Flips to the back. This year he's started reading books from the other end, so he'll find out all the answers right away.

This is geometry. It's too difficult for him. He knows he's good at math, but ability is not enough. There is a _language_ that goes with math, and this language is reserved for bigger kids and teachers. The secret makes them powerful and him weak. He is condemned to another five years of hard labor before they let him into the club. Before he has the power.

That's when it happens.

The geometry frustrates him, and he flips past it, digging into the slightly more fertile fields of algebra, which he understands instinctively. This is a back-of-the-book quiz, multiple choice, the equations relatively simple:

4. 2 + a = 9

a) 6

b) 7

c) 11

d) 8

He does not try. His confidence has crashed on the rocks of _math language_ and the endless petty indignities of being little. He does not try. The number 7 simply _lights up_. Lights up as if it's a star, as if it's on fire. Lights up so bright he feels the heat on his face.

This is a surprise. This has never happened to him before.

He leans back from the book. Looks at both pages.

It happens gradually and piecemeal: upper left corner of the first page, middle of the second column of the second page, then two at a time, then all of them, the answers revealing themselves gracefully, without bludgeoning. They glow soft and white, and it is a deep relief. He has found something he didn't know he'd lost. He is happy but also embarrassed. He has no real concept of social propriety, but understands that what he has experienced is secret and private—possibly forbidden, like eavesdropping, or dangerous, like touching the stove. He snaps the book closed, replaces it on the shelf, presses it until the spine is in line with the others.

_In line with the others_. The refrain of elementary school.

He is seven and living on a different continent before he understands _why_ he must never, ever talk about this kind of thing, that most people—people like his dad—find it weird and alarming. He learns that school is no more enlightened a social order than his home, and he must be a shark in one and a mouse in the other in order to carve out a safe place for himself.

That year, he steals an answer book from the teachers' lounge. He doesn't need to cheat. He knows the answers. But it disappoints him—crushes him, really—that the teachers _don't_. The whole business is written down in some damn book anybody can read, so why the charade? Why the middleman? Why not just give him the book of problems and the book of answers and let him work it out for himself?


	3. Doxylamine

_Doxylamine! _

That was it. That was _it_. He hadn't paid particular attention to the pair of white tablets he'd downed with his evening meds. Drugs were so abundant in here that he'd stopped trying to classify them. Uppers, downers, crap painkillers, useless vitamins, what was one more? There was no choice, anyway. He had exhausted his alternatives. His alternatives had _died_ of exhaustion. High time (ha, ha) to hand the responsibility of dosing and drugging to somebody else, and hope they had better luck.

But now he was certain—as certain as he could be, these days—that _he should not have taken _those _pills._

Months of clinical insomnia and decades of experimental pillaging had given House a good sense of how chemicals affected his body. The first taste of Vicodin was like the dive mechanism on a nuclear submarine. Took him down smooth and clean and held him just above crush depth. And if he was maintaining, if he stumbled into the perfect balance of pills, booze and attitude, he felt like he was in an Edward Hopper painting. The women were beautiful, the talk witty, the colors bold and solid, the lines clear. The long dark Phillies bar of the soul. He liked that feeling. When he didn't have it, he prowled for it. When he had it, he held on with both hands.

In comparison, this OTC sedative—best known by its brand name, Unisom—was cheap and broad. Sure, it knocked him out; doxylamine was the prize fighter of sedatives. At least as good as barbiturates. But it couldn't hold him down. It had bought him less than two hours of fitful sleep and ferocious, bitter dreams. Now it bled through his body and mind, leaving him shaky and muddled and aching and (once again) _not asleep_.

Thanks a lot, head shrinkers. This is _real_ healthy.

He called up a mental model of doxylamine succinate, seventeen carbons, a long chain of oxygen-nitrogen-hydrogen. It was a three-dimensional molecule, red and blue like the plastic models he'd built in college. He set the image on a slow spin, judging it, then took its components and formed them into a lovely, coherent hydrocodone molecule. Mmm. He leered hungrily. You could really see the difference. Biochemically speaking, it was Paris Hilton versus… versus…

Versus _her_, a nasty little voice hissed.

The pain spiked. The model scorched and melted. His stomach became a cold, round rock. He gasped, felt the blood parch from his face. He thought might vomit and, God, he could _smell _her, could feel her run a thumb along his knuckles. He flinched violently as her touch traced his arm, his face. It was sweet and easy and warm and essential. And the most repellent and terrifying thing that had ever happened to him. Bar nothing. He had never been closer to normal, but to lean into it…

_Whatever you want. She'll give you whatever you want. Whenever you want._

He turned away. Closed his eyes. I want the truth. He was ashamed of himself, the beg in his voice. I want it to be real. Please. Stop.

_Yeah_. Her voice thick with laughter. _Try that line on someone who doesn't _know _you._

So that was it. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip and curled away from the imagined touch. The one thing he liked about himself. Now it was just another thing that would have to be mastered every day. Was crippled and broken and painful and from now on would only function _with limitations._

Don't I get anything? he wondered. Don't I get _anything_?


	4. All right

All right. Deep breath. Let it go.

Focus on what's there.

_What was there_ was a tiny, dim room. The walls were cream cement, the furniture honey oak. No sharp edges. His bed was an inch short, and he had propped his heels on the low frame. He was lying on his back, his eyes half-lidded, posture loose. He leaned on his cocked left arm; his right hand rested on his thigh, which fluttered in time with his heartbeat.

There was a bedside table with a lamp bolted to it—_bolted _to it, like he might otherwise pick it up and beat someone to death with it. The drawer was empty. Not even a Gideon Bible. Two empty closets. A tall, narrow window that couldn't be opened, a pale green door that could be locked, but wasn't. One desk: a pair of brand-new notebooks, no pens, no chairs. another bedside table, another empty drawer. Another bed.

The bed was not empty. It was occupied by a pile of blankets and a twenty-four year old schizophrenic named William Wick. But since the guy had yet to fart, snore, move or speak, all he was to House was a lump and a mat of dark hair, pressed against the far wall.

By his count, he'd been in this hospital about eight days. In this room, about ten hours.

He'd been in worse places. That Thai hostel. The dorms at—

_But we're not thinking about that_.

That was thought-stopping. Proven therapeutic technique. It totally worked. There were books and everything.

—the dorms at Michigan. That desk.

A small sound, between a whimper and a growl, escaped his throat. He was gripping his leg so tightly that the pain seemed to flow from his hand. He'd never been more grateful for it. It was an anchor. It was certain. His heart was crawling up his esophagus. If he didn't move, he was going to be violently sick.

He sat up. He kept weight off his right side until the last possible second. He braced himself, then eased into a normal sitting position. The pain in his leg jammed through the entire chromatic scale. He waited for it to reach the high note, see what he was dealing with, but it didn't really reach a high note. It hammered back down into the low chords, back up into an atonal screech, worse than before. If it would just hold still, he could get a grip on it. That was possible. He remembered doing it, in another life.

Not tonight. This was as good as it was going to get.

He slipped his feet into flip-flops, fumbling with the right. Good shoes. They had sneaker soles. Stuck to the floor like suction cups. His cane was in the little gap between the bed and the table. He grabbed it without looking. It settled in his palm. He planted the cane on the floor. Moved his feet until they were a shoulder-width apart and slightly forward. Looked up at the gray drop ceiling. Down at the shellacked wood floor. He took a few deep breaths, drawing in some spare oxygen, delaying.

Moment of truth.

His face drenched—tears, sweat or both—but he did not actually scream when he stood up, did not fall down. Excellent. He checked his right leg again. Yep, still there. Hadn't stepped on a landmine or been attacked with an axe. Just felt that way. He hobbled up and down the small room for a while. When that failed to achieve anything, he stopped at the desk. He rested his fists side-by-side on the table and leaned forward till his knuckles took some of his body weight.

The movement brought his eyes close to the tall, narrow window. This building was probably as old as Cuddy's desk, and the only things left from the original plans were the exterior, maybe the floors, and these windows. He could see the street, grass, parts of the stone façade. A small tree. The night sky looked clear. Probably mid-seventies. But there was something about it that made him glad he was indoors, couple of feet of stone between him and that. If someone told him it was bad out there, a storm brewing, an earthquake, a war, he would have believed it.

Back home, if he was having one of these nights, he'd retreat to Wilson's place, maybe the office. But right now there was no home, no Wilson, no work. He was, without question, alone and unarmed against the dark.

Behind him, an animal rustling.

With the dry voice of a reptile, William Wick rasped, "You're bleeding."


	5. House felt cold

House felt cold. That was instinct. Somebody says: _you're bleeding,_ you have to check. It's programmed into your DNA. But despite the screwed-up flashbacks and disturbed perceptions, he didn't think he'd miss a wound on his own body. Blood and pain were the kind of clues that would tip off a keenly observant diagnostician like himself. He was OK.

In that respect.

Interesting. He pivoted as quickly as his leg would allow him. Perched on the desk, planted the cane between his feet. He let his right hand rest on the familiar curve. He was aiming for casual.

The patient was kneeling in bed, his legs hidden in a nest of wool blankets. Young guy, white, thin. And very, very sick. If he'd been a Plainsboro patient, in a hospital gown instead of a Radiohead t-shirt, a hospital bed instead of a dorm bed, House would have given him less than a year to live.

That was the information the average person might have gotten from an encounter with this guy. A simple, clear message. _Stay away_. Maybe that was better. Safer. But it wasn't House. If it was something he had control over, he might have put a stop to it. This wasn't what he was here to do. In fact, in a very real sense it _was_ the problem.

He really couldn't help himself.

As a child, William Wick had been healthy. Not just everyday healthy. The kind of healthy that comes from whole milk and after-school sports. There were several indicators, but mostly it was his teeth. Someone had paid an orthodontist five or six grand for those teeth. Mom and Dad don't spring for the upgrade if Junior's sick or dying. Won't shell out if they hate him or don't care. There were five Gs of love in this kid's mouth.

But in the end, it hadn't been worth it.

His head had been shaved in the last month or so. The new growth was already tangled and matted, slick with grease. The amber light from the street concealed skin tone, but paunch around the eyes and jowls suggested sudden weight loss. And House didn't think the kid was carrying a lot of spare pounds before he got sick. The wrist House could see was branded by a rope of scar tissue that glowed white in the dim. Vertical, no hesitation marks. Message:_ I meant it_. His respiration was rapid and congested. House didn't make a lot of that. Catarrh could indicate anything from allergies to AIDS.

Besides, show me a psych patient that _doesn't_ have a list of co-morbidities as long as my… cane.

Wick's eyes were set deep in his face. That concentration-camp look that was the hot thing on campus these days. The eyes looked plastic. They were dark and flitted around the room. His gaze occasionally rested on House before cutting away, like he'd seen something obscene. Wick was scratching viciously at the Mayfield ID bracelet on his left wrist—or maybe it was the scar underneath—but there was a rhythmic quality to the motion that suggested that he wasn't aware of it. Other than that, he didn't move. He was hunched so low it almost looked like he was still sleeping.

Except for the eyes.

House felt a stab of alarm, which surprised and worried him. He sat up, leaned forward. Had he missed something? Something worse than severe mental illness and a common cold? He looked Wick over again. Saw what he had seen before, only more. If House turned on a light, and they sat still long enough, he'd tell you the kid's life story. That wasn't necessary. It _was_ the poor light, the dark hair and eyes, the round, youthful face. It was slight. Hardly there. Maybe it wasn't there at all.

House looked at William Wick and recognized something of Wilson.


	6. What did that mean?

What did _that_ mean? He didn't know. He didn't care. It was irrelevant.

In a totally relevant and vitally important way.

He realized he was chewing a thumbnail, jiggling his left leg. He wanted to pace, but there was nowhere to go. His heart rate had revved back up into the stratosphere. He took his hand from his lips and pinned it under the other, on the grip of his cane.

The sudden movement seemed to catch the kid's attention. His gaze circled around House's hands, then came in for a landing on his face. He squinted, blinked slowly. Then he ducked, concealing his face like a shy toddler.

_I can't see you, you can't see me_. If only.

"I know you." Wick's voice would have been soft if it hadn't been sandpapered by a chest cold.

House was silent. _Who, me?_

"House," said the kid, not looking up.

Okay. Was it time for morning meds yet? Maybe some stronger ones?

Wick kept his face down."Noun: A b-b-building in which people live, a residence, a shelter; Verb: to give shelter to, harbor, lodge; Idioms: c-clean house, housetrain, on the house." He lifted his head just enough to meet House's eyes. The look was not cruel or even that crazy, but House did not find that comforting. The plastic eyes narrowed and House knew the stranger was smiling. "Put one's house in order."

House said nothing. He was conflicted. His instinct told him to get the hell out of here. His intellect told him to be still and wait.

Encouraged or intrigued by House's refusal to engage, Wick looked up. He was indeed smiling, an easy, puppyish grin. He was still scratching at the plastic bracelet, plucking at it. "Saw your lecture," he confessed, eyes dropping in shame. He had a slow, hesitant way of speaking, with lots of unexpected pauses. So 'lecture' came out _lick-pause-sure_. Maybe drugs. Maybe something else.

Wick clicked his tongue several times, swallowed. Working up to something. He quoted one of House's own tropes: "'It is a basic truth of the human condition: everybody likes.'"

"Lies. Everybody _lies,_" House corrected, then clamped his mouth shut.

The kid shivered. "What I said."

What lecture? House wondered. It had been years since he'd taught classes. Last time was… two, three years ago, when he'd subbed for someone else. No way this guy was in that class. It was too big a coincidence. And Wick was way too young.

Another conflict. One: This doesn't make sense. This can't be right. But, two: Hallucinations don't have B.O.

House told himself to stop thinking about it. Leave the room or go back to sleep.

_What lecture?_

Wick must've understood, or maybe it was just another thing to say. Psych ward small talk. "It's p-p-pretty popular on YouTube."

Ah. A logical option. And so well-timed.

So, was this logical? _Or is this the logic you use persuade yourself?_

Trust but verify. Caveat emptor. Fool me once…

He got up. His leg was no better, but he had no time for that now. Without another word or glance, he hobbled toward the door. Wick's sharp stare followed him.

"Where are you going?" A note of panic in his voice.

_Nowhere_, House thought. _Absolutely nowhere._

He slipped out.


	7. The corridor

The corridor had the same cream walls and wood floors as the room, with one difference: there was a handrail at waist height. It was a solid oak beam the width of his spread hand; at this hour, it was illuminated from behind by white track lighting. It cast an eerie glow that didn't light his feet. He didn't like that. Nothing for it, though. The overhead lights didn't come on until six-thirty.

He remembered the instructions from the tour he'd gotten: follow the oak band _this _way to the bathroom, follow it _this_ way to the TV room. He needed people for his experiment, so he rested one hand on the smooth rail and let it glide along the surface as he headed toward the common area.

He didn't lean on the railing. Considering the drugs he was on, he was fairly steady. He just wanted to touch something. Every few feet he had to lift his hand as he passed a door. At these gaps he'd make an airfoil with his hand, arc it across the space, then come in for a landing, the way children play out the window on road trips. Same attitude, too: distant, pensive. _Are we there yet_? If he didn't need it to walk, he'd be twirling his cane.

There had been some nods to the New School of therapeutic thought out here. Cheery nametags on the doors: #9 Alex and Theo's Room. Abstract art on the walls, soft colors. But it was like William Wick's teeth. It didn't matter how Mayfield looked on the outside. The rot came from within.

Thanks to his star-crossed career, House always associated hospitals with freedom, with confidence, with trust and independence. He wasn't in that position anymore, might never be again. So despite the dressy décor, Mayfield reminded him of jail. Of his father's house. It was the same sense of low pressure, the same implied threat. Since he'd already folded—he'd been absolutely the model patient, everybody agreed—it didn't really bother him. He was past it.

It did, however, trigger a rush of sour memories, some recent. He flashed briefly on Detective Tritter's eyes. Then Cuddy again, her face raw with shock and rage. Something he'd said. Fortunately, he couldn't stay with it. His mind pivoted into something else.

Something better. And worse.

Winter. He's twenty-six. She's twenty-two. They're both laughing; he's stumbling because he can't see, she because she has to stand on tiptoes to put her hands over his eyes. They lean on each other for balance, for warmth. Then she drops her hands with a flourish. _Ta-da!_

They're in her dorm room, a windowless, freezing roach motel constructed largely of rotting drywall. A neat twin bed with purple sheets, a dust ruffle. And a gigantic desk. Seriously. Biggest desk he'd ever seen in a room this size. Scratched, roughly finished, a half-dozen cubbies and secret spaces. You'd have to climb over the thing just to get into bed.

If you wanted to do that for some reason.

She snakes an arm underneath his shirt. Her nails are long and kindle hot trails along his skin. She tucks herself under his arm and rests her cheek on his chest. They're staring straight ahead. "It's a library desk," she murmurs.

Her fingertips are cold, but her palm is warm. It's just underneath his ribs. A soft spot. He shifts a little, crooks his arm. Draws her close. Grips her shoulder to steady himself.

_Steady..._

He blinks, shakes off a vague feeling of disquiet. Rests his chin on top of her head. "Uh-huh."

"I found it at this flea market in Chicago? Guy said it was a century old."

She's pressed right up against him. Girls think this kind of thing is chummy. 'Cause nothing says _we're friends_ like your hand up someone's shirt. He's thinking about having that made into a card.

Deep breath. "Uh-huh."

"Dad said I'd never get it up here alone."

He particularly does not want to talk about her dad.

"Your desk," she promises.

He chuffs. "Right. 'Cause I need more furniture."

She sucks in a breath as if he struck her.

Well, damn it all. But it's true, isn't it? He's trying to get rid of stuff. Anything big and heavy, he'll have to figure out what to do with it when he moves. That doesn't mean _their_ thing is furniture. Except that is what it means.

"Ah, Cuddy, I'm sorry." She likes that he uses her last name. Makes her feel like they're in an old movie. It doesn't really work this time. "I don't want you to—"

"No, it's fine," she says, too quickly. "You're, aah. You're right. I don't know what I was thinking."

Something in her voice. He wonders what the desk set her back. Three, four hundred bucks? If he gives her the money… his survival instinct kicks in, and he doesn't offer.

"It is a cool desk," he says. For whatever _that_'_s_ worth.

He feels her smile. When she speaks, he feels that, too. "A hundred years old."

"Long time." Their lives, three or four times over.

She says, "It's too big for this room."

Understatement of the year. He reaches up to touch her. Still obliged to heal the rift. "Can I make it up to you?"

She grins, mock-bites at his fingertips. The tender uncertainty in her face is the most appealing thing he's ever seen.

"You know," she says, pulling him down. "You just might."

He heard a scrape and glanced over his shoulder, blinking away the flashback.

William Wick had emerged from the room. Upright, he looked even younger and smaller. He was barefoot, and his clothes hung loose on his bony frame. A hat had been added to the ensemble—a leather World War II aviator's cap that hung low over his eyebrows. The ear flaps brushed his shoulders. He hugged the wall like a bitter wind was pressing him into it. The look was a little Late American Lunatic, but Wick seemed determined to follow, to catch up.

_Good_, he thought. He'd hoped for that.


	8. House made his way

House made his way slowly through the maze of corridors, stopping at intervals to wait for the shuffling, crouching follower, until he arrived at what he might call a box canyon. It was a long, narrow room, recently renovated. On one end was a pristine air hockey table, a full bookcase, and a stack of board games. On the other was a twenty-year-old TV surrounded by threadbare silk sofas. One of these things was being used.

House let himself in, limped over to the TV. The wall clock said 12:55, but a lot of psych meds caused insomnia, and the couches were as occupied at midnight as they'd been in the afternoon. In fact, it didn't look like any of these people had moved. The stocky guy with the handlebar mustache still sat in the loveseat, staring into his cupped hands. The three women were still sitting together on the big couch. They were different sizes and colors and ages, but their expressions were so similar that House had already named them the Quinlan Sisters. One of them had burn scars, another's mouth moved in a constant, soundless chant.

How anyone was supposed to turn normal in here, House didn't know.

The TV cast a blue-gray flicker. House crossed his arms, watched over their shoulders. _Jon & Kate Plus 8_ was on. A rerun. House was rooting for Kate. She reminded him of Cuddy. Go on, Kate, cut that loser loose and put the kids up for adoption. Fulfill your destiny as a trashy D-list celebrity. Call me.

He felt Wick come up behind him. Heard the rasp, the sniffle.

What now?

Say: _Evening, crazies. Do you see a college-age schizo standing behind me? Oh, no reason. Just trying to find out if I'm hallucinating. _Yeah, that sounded totally sane. Besides, what would it mean if they said _yes_? Or _no_? Social validation was very important to mental health, and he'd come here intending to get some. But if your immediate social circle was composed of psychotics and manic-depressives, were you really supposed to believe what they told you?

Wick resolved the dilemma by chirping, "Heya, everybody!"

The noise made House flinch.

A ripple spread through the crowd, and those capable of speech mumbled, "Hi, Willy."

Ta-da. Another mystery solved, another existential crisis averted.

The stir brought a drowsing orderly to full consciousness. Pretty black girl, younger than Wick, maybe eighteen or nineteen. She was wearing white scrub pants and a colorful shirt and a nametag. Charmaine. She sat between the TV and gray swinging door. Positioned to see the whole room. Her plastic chair had been tipped back till it rested against the wall.

Though her eyes were barely open, she smiled and said, "Hi, Dr. House." Her gaze flicked to a spot behind him. She blinked in surprise. "Willy." Her eyes shifted back House. Hesitant smile. She tipped her head at Wick. "This character isn't bothering you, is he, Dr. House.

House looked behind him. Wick was right in his orbit, close enough for House to feel the heat radiating off him. He had a low-grade fever. At House's stare, he cringed, but didn't hide his face.

Social validation. Good for everybody.

House made a decision. "No," he murmured. Then, with more confidence: "No. He's fine."

Charmaine nodded. "Anything you need?"

House gestured at the swinging door.

Charmaine nodded again, granting admittance, and House made his way past her. He held the door for Wick, watching the kid's gait and bearing as Wick crossed in front of him. Wick shuffled, sometimes stumbled. Overmedicated? Maybe.

House flipped on the lights. This was a kitchen. Well. The kind of kitchen you couldn't cook anything in, containing food that could only be eaten with spoons. There was a big refrigerator, an empty coffee pot, a counter, a few round tables. They were alone, but a big window looked out into the common room. House searched the cabinets until he found two bowls and some plastic flatware. There was a pyramid of miniature cereal boxes in the corner. House chose Froot Loops for himself, Frosted Flakes for the kid. He empted the boxes, then flooded the bowls with milk. Took a seat at the table, then held out a bowl for William Wick.

Wick's eyes widened. In this light they were a deep, luminous green. He stared like House had drawn a gun.

"C'mon, c'mon," said House impatiently. "I don't do this a lot."

Wick blinked. "I'm not h-hungry." He licked his dry lips.

"Me either," said House. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna puke this up in a couple of hours."

The kid inched closer. Perched on a seat. House pushed the bowl in front of him. "So, why we eating?"

"It's a simple equation." House swallowed a big scoop. Made a face. The sugar bomb woke him up more completely and efficiently than any nightmare. "Eat or starve."

Wick twirled his spoon in the milk. Then he lifted the wet spoon and attacked his ID band again, using the scooped end like a knife. House watched for a minute, then leaned forward and plucked the plastic implement from Wick's fingers.

House anticipated an outburst, but there was none. Wick just slumped back his chair, the way any student did when temporarily stymied. Too cool to care. He cocked his eyebrows expectantly, and House once again saw an echo of his closest friend.

House thought, _wait_—

He's thirty-four and sure-footed. He sees Mayfield in front of him, Wick's shy face, but when he steps forward he feels cement. He's walking. A uniformed female cop leads the way, and he follows closely. He doesn't want to get lost in this city jail and, yes, he might be checking her out. He's chewing gum and wearing sunglasses. Going for sort of a nonchalant Blues Brothers thing. It seems to work down here. The sweltering heat, the fishy stink of the bayou, the food, the music—they stick with you, get in your pores. If there is an antonym for New Jersey, an apology, it's New Orleans.

He could stay here for ever.

They arrive at the Ninth Ward drunk tank, which has no air conditioning and stinks charmingly. There is only one man in the pen. The early catch. Officer Orleans unlocks it with a key from her ring. When she turns, House slides the shades down and peers over the top, gives her his roguish smile, which sometimes works on these Southern girls.

She's not buying it. She rolls her eyes and saunters away.

Eh. Just as well.

The man on the bench is either pretending not to notice or is preoccupied with his magazine. He's a few years younger than House and dressed too nice for jail. Too nice, really, for anything. House inspects him, then strikes the bars sharply with his cane.

Wait. What?

_Kicks_. He kicks the bars. The boozer looks up.

It's Wilson.

"I took care of it," House tells him. He grins.

Wilson—

Wilson what? What next?

He couldn't remember. Oh, he remembered the _story_ well enough, but it'd been almost sixteen years, and the details eluded him. The jail was gone, washed away in Katrina along with the convention center and much of the Ninth Ward, and House couldn't scare up enough history to maintain the fantasy.

He blinked, squinted.

Wick's face said, _Well?_

With more gentleness than usual, House said, "Tell me what happened."

Blank expression. He didn't get it.

House took a deep breath. Glanced out the window. Nobody was coming. "About ten days ago," he said. He spoke softly, but with conviction. "I had a psychotic episode. Do you understand what that means?

Wick's expression darkened. He glanced down, stared into his bowl. Gave one sharp nod.

"Since then…" House's voice trailed off. There were a lot of ways he could end that sentence, but none he wanted to say out loud. He pushed it away with a wave. "I'm just curious." He felt like he did with every truly important question. Perched on the edge of a knife. "How did it happen to you?"


	9. Color tinted

Color tinted Wick's pale face, a deep blush that crept from throat to cheekbones so quickly that House once again braced for an outburst or a collapse. He tensed under an old clinic physician's instinct to take Wick's pulse. But something other than House's natural reluctance to touch a stranger stopped him. Wick's illness seemed disturb the air around them, so that even in the gentlest moments he seemed flammable, potentially explosive.

House did not consider himself squeamish. In fact, he viewed sensitivity to the low realities of life—the blood, the tears, the madness—as a character weakness. Neither pain nor insanity were contagious. But still, he did not want to touch William Wick.

The aborted gesture came out as a flicker, a shift of the weight.

Wick caught the movement. The young man curled into himself, drawing his arms close to protect his body, peeking out from underneath the aviator's cap to shoot House hunted green glances. He shuddered.

Then, as if confessing to murder, Wick leaned forward and whispered, "I saw a tree."

House released a deep breath. Pointless. Really, really pointless. What was he doing, anyway? As if he and this kid had anything in common. As if Wick were even capable of anything other than schizo-babble. House was glad they were alone for this sad and embarrassing exchange.

Wick seemed to expect a response, so House mugged, "Really? That's great." He held out Wick's plastic spoon. "Brilliant." He was already looking over the kid's shoulder for something more interesting.

Maybe he should go back to _Jon & Kate_.

"_No_," said Wick, leaning hard on the _no_ the way a little child might, with a long whining note. House felt pressure in his fingers and glanced down. Wick was pushing the spoon away. It bent under his light touch.

Wick's eyes glimmered. He spoke rapidly, as if under a deadline. "I was tw-twenty-one. In Virginia. William and Mary."

House lowered his hand. "You were a student."

"Was." Wick smiled and rolled his eyes, acknowledging the impossibility of this statement. Then his face wavered. "_Was_," he repeated. _Never again_, he didn't have to say. "I was in a biology class." Smile. "I l-like biology. Liked it. A lot. Was good at it. Ch-chains of proteins, cellular development, unique cell markers of m-mitochondrial DNA." He shook his head, expression clearing. "You know."

Though there were several ways to take that statement, House nodded.

"Anyway," said Wick. "I was in this class, _bored_." He yawned theatrically, slouched even lower in his chair.

He looked so much like a first-year med student that House had déjà-vu.

"So I was looking out." The kid drew back his teeth, something between a grin and a grimace. "Out, _out_ the window and I s-saw a _tree_. And it wasn't, like, a, a…" He touched his temple, wrinkled his brow, squinted. It wasn't a hallucination, he was trying to say, but he couldn't bring himself to say the word or didn't know it. "It was a normal tree. Brown. It was fall and the w-wind." He traced a wind pattern with his fingers. His mouth tightened and he turned away, dropping his gaze. "It just looked wrong. _Everything._ Everything looked so _wrong_." He folded his arms into the protective crouch again. "And I knew it was… I mean, I tried, I tried to just keep quiet and pretend but it was s-so bad." He shivered. "And then I started h-_hearing_ and…" His voice faltered.

House squinted. "No way."

Wick sat up. "What? No way what?" As if the phrase had nothing to do with the story he'd just told.

"No way that's how it happens," said House. "Listen to yourself. You're telling me that you went from what, normal, to nutcase in less than a year?"

Wick set his jaw and shook his head. Held up a thumb and index finger an inch apart. "L-less than twenny-four hours."

"Bullshit," said House. "There's a reason. Trauma, infection, nerve degeneration. Drugs."

"Well," Wick murmured. "It was t-two years ago. Don't lemme stop you from trying to figure it out."

"If it was a psychotic break," House insisted, "if it was schizophrenia, there would've been signs. Before the big one. Maybe it didn't mean a lot to you at the time. But it's never just, 'I saw something_._'"

Wick shrugged. It was a full-body gesture, including knees and eyebrows. It indicated both ignorance and apathy. After all, what did it matter to him? In a few days, a few hours, a few minutes, he might not remember the story. Or he might make up a different one and believe that.

"You… you go back," Wick admitted. "You go back and you think, if I had done _this_ thing differently. This one thing. Right?"

House was silent, thinking of his waking nightmares.

"The things you thought were okay, you wanna do 'em again. Do it r-right. And the big stuff, what you thought _really_ mattered, it's just gone." He snapped his fingers. "Who knows."

Again this rang true, though House did not quite understand why. He tapped his left foot, chewed his lip. Ambiguity made him very uncomfortable. It always had, and now it was even worse. Why _hadn't_ he flashed back to infarction, the bus accident, Kutner's suicide? House was stubborn, but he was not an idiot. He understood that these traumas should have cut deeply and left marks. Nevertheless: when he thought, _Amber_, he felt pain—an inner tenderness, a soft spot, a bruise—and fear, but when he thought about Cuddy, or work, or… virtually anything else, he felt like he was drowning. He had to grip the table's edge just to remind himself of where he was.

_Breathe._

Wick didn't notice. "It's all you can think about, but it's-it's-it's nothing, it's everything." The color drained from his face. "You end up here anyway." His eyes darted left and right, and he pouted. "The spice ward."

House corrected him without thinking. "Psych ward." Then he focused. There was a thing. He cocked his head.

"What I said," said Willy Wick. He smiled.


	10. House said

House said, "Hey, what's up with that?"

Wick didn't answer. Didn't shrug or blink. He gave no sign at all that House had spoken, and for one shaky moment, House wondered if he had.

House folded his hands on the table and rested his chin on top, peering up. Wick was several inches shorter than House, so this was the best way to get a look the patient's face, his expressions. House guessed it might have the additional benefit of making him look less intimidating. Because middle-aged, mentally ill cripples have that huge intimidation factor working against them.

On the other hand, for a guy like Wick, getting out of bed was intimidating.

_A guy like Wick._ House thought about that for a minute and swallowed. What did it mean to be a guy like Wick? More importantly—much, much more importantly—what made you _unlike_ him?

Accustomed to the scrutiny of doctors, Wick went very still. Then he sniffled deeply, sounding like the last bit of milkshake being sucked through a straw.

House spoke carefully. "A while ago, you mentioned a lecture I gave to some third-year medical students. The YouTube thing. Remember?"

After a moment, Wick nodded. It was slow and hesitant, as if he feared he was being led into a trap.

Maybe he was. "You quoted me. 'Everybody lies.'"

Nod.

"Except you didn't say, 'everybody lies.' You said something else."

Wick shifted his weight. Cupped his chin, almost covering his mouth with his narrow fingers. "Likes. I s-said everybody likes."

"Yeah. I corrected you." He laid it out like an attorney for the prosecution, _Reality v. William Wick_. "Then you did it again. Talking about this place. You said 'spice ward.' You meant 'psych ward.'"

Blink. Nod. That look, universal in the under-thirties, that says: _So what_?

This was too easy.

"When you did that," House said, "did you know you were making a mistake?"

Wick shook his head, eyes wide and innocent. "No mistake."

This was not a quality answer. It lacked depth. "You used the wrong word twice in less than half an hour," House reiterated. He counted off the possibilities on his fingers. "It was either deliberate, or it was an accident. If it was an accident, you have a condition called aphasia."

"Aphasia: noun." Wick's eyes narrowed. "From the Greek. Meaning 'n-no words.'"

Attention, studio audience: the kid is educated. For what it's worth. "Yes. And it can be very serious." The relentless inner skeptic piped up again. _Compared to what?_ "So I need—" House stopped. Remembered where he was, who he was, what he was doing here. Made a face. "—I _want_ to know why you did it."

If you know, he thought. If you can tell me.

At some point the pain in his leg had jack-hammered back into his consciousness, demanding attention. He had been able to block it out while he was talking—working, really—but now he loosed a hand from under his chin and kneaded the twitching, shivering muscle. He tried to use the pain, let adrenalin carry him up over the antidepressant haze. When that was only partially helpful, began to slam through the higher prime numbers, his preferred method of denial.

He very much hoped that he hadn't exhausted Wick, because he was starting to struggle for something to hold on to.

_Everybody likes. Spice ward._

Wick's cheeks and lips were pale, almost blue. He nodded, over and over again. You're getting it. "It's the definitions."

His voice was strange. Distant. Hollow. But that wasn't Wick's problem. House dug his fingernails into the meat of his damaged leg.

"Definitions?" he repeated, too lightly.

"Yeah. Yeah-yeah-yeah." Big smile. He extended an index finger, cocking a brow like a game-show host. He planted it on the table, pinning an invisible bug, holding it down. His eyes were very bright. For a moment, he looked almost at peace. Almost normal. "It's a system. The things with definitions are real."

He nodded at his finger. It was his left hand; the ID bracelet hung loosely on his spindle-thin wrist. It snared Wick's attention again, and he lifted his arm, tugging at the bracelet with crooked fingers. He held it up in demonstration. "See? Tag. Noun: a piece of strong paper, metal, leather, plastic, _et cetera_, for attaching to something as a mark or label. Verb: to attach a tag to. Idioms: tag along, play tag. Real."

No stutters. If House had a notebook, he would have written that down, underlined it, drawn an arrow to _Definitions._

Wick said, "But if you let it go, if you _change _it or _lose _it…" He brought the tag to his lips, chewed anxiously. "It goes away."

His small voice now muddled for obvious reasons.

House stared for a long time. He lifted his head and sat back slowly, almost unconsciously mirroring Willy's position. As he moved, House eyes caught his own ID band, but he didn't linger. Let it go. "And that's what _lies_ and _likes_ is about. Changing words."

"Likes is better."

"It's not better," said House. "You can't change reality by changing your mind."

"Can," said Willy, giving him a look of wide-eyed assurance.

House eyed the suicide scars on the younger man's wrists.

"Really?" There was a cruel, mocking tone in his voice that he didn't like. He wasn't needling Cuddy or Wilson; Willy was a defenseless opponent. But he couldn't stop himself. "That's working good for you, huh? Because from where I'm sitting—"

Willy wasn't listening. He was onto something else. House stopped, traced his low gaze.

He ended up looking at the back of his own hand. His fingers rested lightly on the small table, about midway between himself and Willy. There was a fresh scar there, pink and white and about the size of a dime. Considering all the other scars and aches, House had pretty much forgotten about that one.

"What's that?" said Willy. "How'd you do that?"

"Mosquito bite," House said automatically. "It got infected."

Wick stared, his look too knowing. "That's what you tell people," said Wick.

"That's what it was," said House. "More or less."

Willy was silent just long enough for it to sink in.

"See? _See_?" He grinned sloppily, waved with his tagged hand. "If you change it, it goes away. Bye-bye."


	11. Doubt

Doubt wormed through him. He stared down at the scar and it changed. Became a dark, suppurating wound, as bad as it had been when he'd done it. His fingers twitched. He blinked. There. A small, waxy scar.

He was very close to it now. His calves and forearms tingling, a cold anticipation vibrating through his chest and belly. He stood on the edge of a deep chasm. The Grand Canyon. The little voice inside whispering: Go ahead. Jump.

Blink. A wound. Blink. A scar.

He flexed his fingers, closed his hand. Tore his gaze away. An unarmed opponent? Whatever his weaknesses, he landed blows as solid as Cuddy's.

Beginner's luck. He nodded, conceding the point. "Okay. I did it myself." He knew it was true, but the memory wouldn't come. "With a knife." He extended his arm, showed a row of fading brown scars. "These too."

"Why?" Willy leaned forward to look, his face registering nothing but curiosity. "Cause you're d-depressed?"

"I'm not depressed."

Willy's brow furrowed, and his bottom lip stuck out in a mock pout.

House rolled his eyes. "What? You think that's denial? That what they teach you in therapy?" He shook his head. "Where were you in school? A junior?"

"S-senior. I was ahead a year." He looked proud, but all House could think was how many of Willy's sentences began with the phrase _I was_.

A year, two years: I was a doctor. I was good at it. "You take any biochemistry?"

"S-sure."

"Clinical depression," said House, "is caused by an imbalance of chemicals in the brain." A spiel he had given to hundreds of clinic patients. "Seritonin, norepinephrine, something else we don't know about."

Look down. Jump.

Willy nodded.

"You're depressed, you feel sad and you have low energy. You don't know why. A guy like me gives you some pills, you feel better." He held his hands in front of him, balancing them like they were scales. He hoped Willy didn't notice them shaking. "That's a chemical problem. No different than diabetes or MS." He regarded the smaller man for a moment. "Probably not much different from you, actually." He tipped his head. "You're on meds?"

Had to be. Good ones.

"_T-truckloads_," Willy agreed.

Give the man's psychiatrist a small cigar. "Yeah, well," said House. "I've been a doctor for a long time. If I had a chemical problem, I'd take happy pills. If I wanted to die, I'd kill myself. It's not complicated."

"You're taking happy pills now. Those r-red ones? Effexor."

House almost smiled. If you really want to know what you're taking, don't ask a doctor. Ask a chronic patient. "No choice. I start refusing meds, I'll never get out of here. But I'm not depressed. My reasons for being miserable are rational."

Frown. "What reasons?" Again, the perky voice of a fifth-grader watching a frog dissection. Lemme see. Oh, gross. Awesome.

Maybe that's why House answered. He scratched his beard. Hefted his cane, twirled it once like a magician, like he was conjuring the last ten years. "Let's see," said House.

Willy had a problem with that. His eyes widened and his chair inched backwards. He was pushing it with his feet. He tugged on the flaps of the aviator's cap. House lowered the cane. Willy's chair stopped. House gripped the cane by its shaft and lifted it menacingly. The chair began to inch backwards again, the metal feet squeaking along the floor. He lowered the cane.

Willy stopped.

Heh.

House set the cane on the floor beside him, and some of the tension faded from Willy's face.

"I killed someone," said House. "For starters."

Willy blinked. But he didn't inch away. He'd had more of a reaction to the cane.

Either he didn't get it, or he didn't care.

"_Who_?" Willy murmured.

"Her name was -----." It came out as static. White noise. House set his jaw, slapped his hand hard on the table. Hot, tingling pain, radiating into his wrist. He shook it out. "_Amber,_" he repeated, forcing himself to hear it this time. "It was an accident."

"Accident," said Willy. "Noun." He held up a single finger. "Without intention or purpose."

Back to definitions. Ah, well. "Uh-huh."

_If it was an accident…_

Willy wasn't finished. He held up a second finger. "A r-random circumstance. Not essential to meaning."

A quote from a philosophy textbook or something. Logic 101. House remembered it. He shook his head, but not in disagreement. Truth: the circumstances of Amber's crash, the randomness, were irrelevant to its meaning and impact. Or: the accident has nothing to do with it. You end up here anyway. Or: I know more about what this screwball is saying than he does.

Or: D. All of the above.

House leaned back and folded his arms. Hid his hand.

_If it was an accident, you have a condition…_

A bite, a cut. A wound, a scar. Blink. Blink.

"You see her?"

House shrugged. No reason to keep it a secret. "Sometimes."

"Th-that's why you're here."

House had his head tipped back, stared at the ceiling. He wanted something to throw and catch. "Nope."

Willy was silent.

"Everybody sees things," House said, wondering if that was true. "First time I saw something, I was a kid. That's not it either."

"What, then? What?"

"Not sure yet," he said. "I don't think it has a name." _And no definition. Which doesn't mean it's not there. _He closed his eyes. He was drowsy. Doxylamine coming back for a second round, pulling him from the brink. "Prob'ly for the best. If they knew what it was, they'd make a pill for it."

"You d-don't wanna get better?"

House opened his eyes and lifted his head. Willy had come back to the table. He rested his chin on his folded hands, mimicking House's position from minutes ago.

House said, "You better?"

Willy shrugged.

"And you take your meds every day?" said House. He made a chopping motion with his hands, laying out the days. "Like that?"

Willy nodded, not lifting his head.

House sat up straight in his chair, drew himself to his full height. Rested a wrist on the arc of his cane, a hand on his aching leg. Didn't smile. "What do you see?"

The kid didn't flinch or cringe. His face was intent. He stared for a moment. "You're bl-bleeding," he said. "Bleeding everywhere."

House smiled, closed-mouthed. "Right." An odd thought struck him, settled in. He chewed his lip. What the hell. "It go away when I talk about it?"

"Dunno."

"Me either."

Silence. Willy's attention wandered, his eyes going soft and distant. Then he perked up again.

"What about you?" Willy said. "What do you s-see?"


	12. He's 49

He's forty-nine.

Cuddy's office: smell of printer ink and stained wood, that desk between them, his shoulders and jaw tense. He's carrying something. A wisecrack, probably. Something biting. She's always drawn out the wolf in him.

But…

But…

Her face is throwing him off.

It's an expression he's never seen on her. He's known her twenty-two years, and this look—the chalk-pale face, the dark furrows under her eyes, the deep question that digs between her eyebrows and parts her lips and ages her... he has _never_ seen this before. It is fascinating and complicated. And it is dangerous. And forbidden.

"Are you okay?"

Panic there, in the lower harmonics of her voice—a wavering. It scares him, confuses him. His hand is cold and cramping as the Vicodin bottle slips from tingling fingers. He sees it, doesn't see it, his reality controlled by desires, not definitions. The worst fear. The _worst_ fear.

But she's there. Right there and, God, he can _smell_ her, and she's touching him: his arm, his face. He's broken but not alone. He grips her _so hard_, hard enough to hurt. As if he can make her see, as if…

The things with definitions are real.

He thought: _Cuddy, noun…_

He rubbed his eyes. His hands shaking worse than ever. The memory bright and shimmering, the pain of it burning him, the tenderness of it warming him. And he knew it would always be this way.

"Nothing," he said. He held up a hand, pushing away Willy's stare and Cuddy's touch. "It's nothing."

Shaky smile.

The two men sat there for a moment, staring, their stillness putting House in mind of a pair of chess players reading the board. Then, fired by some unknown and unquestioned energy, House seized his cane, tossed it from one hand to the other, shot one ember-low glance at the kid, turned, and propelled himself toward the door.

In seconds he felt the follower at his elbow again.

"Wh-what now?"

"Now?" said House softly. "I'm going back to sleep." The drugs and the conversation were drowning him; he needed to process.

"Oh."

They walked together for a moment, and then House felt Willy fall behind, and for reasons he could not articulate, he turned and looked back. "What?"

Willy had stopped in the hallway. He was staring at his bare toes, one hand on the railing to support himself. "Hey," he murmured. "Th-thanks."

House cocked a brow.

"F-for being nice." Willy's voice got softer with each word, his shoulders lower, like he was afraid he'd get smacked.

House frowned. "I'm not nice," he said sharply. "I wanted something from you."

"Oh."

House turned and kept walking. Willy caught up. This kid was never going to shut up now.

"You get it?" said Willy. "What you w-wanted?'

House didn't stop, didn't look back. "Not really."

"Oh."

Silence. But Willy was chewing on something. House could tell.

"Just one th-thing?" said Willy.

"What?"

"Can you put away your p-pike? It's scares the crap out of me."

House turned. The tense smile on Willy's face was more about fear than confidence. House hefted the stick. "I need it to walk. It's a cane."

Flinch. Blink. "What I said."

"Things are what they are," said House.

"One man's opinion," said William Wick.


	13. Epilogue: Charmaine

Charmaine Smith-Shutesbury, the first floor night orderly, stood in the doorway to the common room with her narrow hand pressed to her chest. She could feel her heart drumming in there, leaping. Her ribcage rising and falling with her quick breaths. She watched the two silhouettes—the tall doctor and his shuffling companion—turn a corner. Heard their voices and felt something warm and satisfied flicker inside her.

She glanced over her shoulder at her patients. Mellow and docile at this hour. She could leave them. Just for a second, she could leave them.

She stepped into the corridor and walked in the opposite direction of the two men. The hospital was dim and dreamy, and she had to fight a feeling of buoyancy. Only a few months into the job, she still had to count doors to find her way: one, two, three… seven… _nine…_

She stepped into an oasis of light, blinking.

The nurses' station guarded the entrance to the hospital. During the day three or four nurses and a Ph.D. student camped here. At night it was only Charmaine and the night nurse, a classic battleaxe named Ruth Whittle. Ruth was single at fifty-six, tired, bored, achy and nearing retirement. _Bor-ing_. But late hours in a mental hospital makes for strange allies, and they had settled into an amiable if silent routine.

Ruth sat at the window, deep in a _People_ magazine.

Charmaine put her hands on the Formica and waited for Ruth to notice her. She tapped a foot anxiously, drummed her fingers.

Ruth sighed, turned a page.

"Ruthie!" Charmaine finally erupted. "You know Mr. Peanut? The guy with the cane?" She was speaking loud and fast, the news bursting out of her.

Ruth did not look up. "Miss Shutesbury," she said, "every patient here has a name. If you can't remember them, I suggest you be quiet."

But there was no anger in her voice. Charmaine knew she wasn't in real trouble."Yeah, yeah, he's a doctor, right?"

Ruth's voice was weary. "Yes, I think so."

"A therapist or something?" Charmaine grinned. "He _is_, right?"

Ruth blinked. She looked up, adjusted her reading glasses, squinted until the young orderly came into focus. "A therapist? Hardly." She thought for a moment. "He studies infectious diseases, I think. Fairly eminent in the field." Her face darkened. "The poor man. Why?"

Charmaine was practically jumping for joy. "He just talked to Willy Wick for, like, an hour."

"Oh?"

"_Willy_," said Charmaine, pointing down the hall. "The little guy in room twelve."

Ruth's attention was already wandering. "Yes?"

"It's just…" Charmaine had to pause to catch her breath. "I've never seen Willy like that. I don't think I've _ever _heard him talk. I always thought he was catatonic." She swallowed. Shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Do get what I'm saying? He made him _better_."

Ruth eyed at Charmaine for a long moment. But the message didn't land; there were too many small miracles and major setbacks in a place like Mayfield. Ruth didn't have the heart to hear them all. Her gaze shifted to a point over Charmaine's shoulder.

"Oh?" Ruth murmured. She looked down, shook the creases out of the magazine. Took a deep breath and settled back in. "How interesting."


End file.
